Snapshots: Rolling Thunder
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Missing scenes from the pilot episode. Everybody has motives.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: Liz set the challenge: a missing scene(s) or addendum to "This Fortnight's Episode" which happens to be _Rolling Thunder_, the pilot. Here's mine.

It was Cheri who first suggested (in her story "The Verdict") that a few strings might have needed pulling to get Mark back in Hardcastle's courtroom on the eve of the judge's retirement.

**Snapshots: Rolling Thunder**

by L.M. Lewis

**Part 1**

He sat there for a while, not even certain of how long, unaware of the passage of time. He finally felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Skid?" It was Tony, one of the pit crew. "You okay?"

"Ah, yeah." Mark swiped a sleeve across his face. "Yeah."

He put his hand down on the track and boosted himself up. Tony stepped back.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We all are." Tony's chin jerked to the left. Mark saw the others, the guys gathered by the pit, huddled some, shoulders down and hands in overall pockets. "Flip was a great guy."

_Was_. Mark felt the word sink in. He nodded in acknowledgment.

"Look, I gotta . . ." He frowned. He wasn't exactly sure what he had to do. He made a vague gesture toward the car he'd been driving.

"Yeah, sure." Tony nodded. "His kid—"

"Barb."

"Yeah, Barb." Tony shook his head. "It's gonna be hard. It was just her and him, ya know."

"I know."

"You and him went way back, huh?"

Mark wasn't sure he wanted to have this conversation. He didn't really want to talk to anybody right now, but Barb, yeah, he should find her, make sure she was okay.

He shook his head. Tony looked up at him questioningly.

"Ah, nothing. I was just thinking of something." He shrugged, as if to erase the first gesture. "Yeah, way back. He pulled my ass out of the fire a few times." Mark managed a half-smile.

_He'd been ready to do it again._

He squashed that wayward thought. This wasn't about him. Flip had died without ever seeing his own dream realized. Barb had lost her father. That was the important stuff.

He looked around wearily. The guys over by the pit were talking among themselves, already drifting back to their work. The stock car was still parked on the track.

"I gotta go," he said abruptly.

"Sure, man." Tony nodded. "Let us know . . . when you find out about the arrangements, I mean."

Mark nodded, already walking away.

00000

They kept coming back to him as he drove—quick, flitting, _unworthy_ thoughts. Had Flip told his partners who he wanted to drive the prototype? And even if he had, would they go along with the idea of having an ex-con on their team? He didn't know much about Cody Industries. Flip hadn't said much. And now when those thoughts surfaced they made him cringe—that he could even be worrying about stuff like that when he'd just lost a friend.

_How close were you, anyway?_ He pulled over, parking down the block from Flip's place. He'd had to look the address up. There was no question they'd been close once, almost like family. He'd lived in the man's garage for almost a year.

But that had been over ten years ago. Things change. _He'd_ changed. The whole time he'd been up in Quentin there hadn't been a single visit. Some letters, yeah. Those had been from Barbara—he knew Flip wasn't much on letters, but still . . .

A long way to drive, he'd rationalized, and maybe better for them not to have seen him in Quentin. It would have made it so much more real, so much harder to forget once it was over.

He hadn't gotten out of the car yet. There were others vehicles parked further along--too many for the driveway. One was a squad car. He frowned. Its occupant exited the front door, heading down the walkway. Paperwork, some detail for the accident report. They shouldn't be hassling her with stuff like that.

Even after the cop car pulled away, there was still a crowd of vehicles down there. Company. Barb wasn't alone. She undoubtedly had lots of friends. Flip was a heck of a guy; everybody loved him.

He sighed and put his car back into gear. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. The ex-con showing up, making everyone nervous—that'd be just what she'd need. He pulled out and edged past the house slowly. He'd never been inside, never seen the place before. Flip had still been living in an apartment the last time they'd gotten together. It'd been nearly three years. Now he was a big-time auto-designer.

_Was_. Mark grimaced.

And what the hell had he been thinking, dropping in on her like this?

He drove west, thinking about nothing and everything. The first time he'd met Flip. Gone to see him, really, down in Daytona with no more introduction than a stack of articles he'd torn out of hot rod magazines. Just a kid, and not expecting much, but Flip must've known how much he needed a break back then. Just a place to crash and three squares would have been enough, but a chance to work around the cars, get his license—

_You owe him . . . you'll always owe him_.

He came to the coast, the highway winding north and south from there. The right-hand turn was made without any conscious choice. It wasn't the way back to his apartment, but he didn't much feel like going there right now. He drove north along the twisting coastal highway, past Santa Monica and into the more open spaces. He'd come up here sometimes in the past few months, when he was feeling the chafe of his parole restrictions and needed a reminder of why he had to conform to Dalem's rules. This time he drove further than usual, barely aware of his surroundings and only minimally aware of the driving itself.

But part of him knew this wasn't working its usual spell on him, and that eventually he'd have to turn back. To continue on this road indefinitely would take him back to the doorstep of San Quentin, and that was someplace he never wanted to return to again. He braked, reluctantly, and pulled into the driveway of some rich guy's landed estate. Not as far as the gates, lord knew he didn't need the cops called down on him now; he'd probably punch somebody's lights out.

_Flip's not here to bail you out._

That stray thought landed in the middle of his temporary distraction. He put the car in reverse and hauled out, grimacing to himself. There weren't any bailable offenses for him anymore. Dalem had made that perfectly clear six months ago. He didn't know why all this was so forward in his mind. It wasn't as if he'd relied on anyone this past few years.

_Maybe that was the problem. Flip came waltzing back in and . . . it was like old times. _

He shook his head. He knew better. A guy should never get used to that. The people you could trust were few and far between, and even those could be gone without warning . . . _taken_. He thought about that for a while—the unforgiving way of the world, to let a guy get that close to the prize and then snatch his life away. He suddenly realized he didn't know anything about how Flip had died. An accident? The irony stuck in his throat. He wanted to pound the steering wheel.

But there was no use in that, either. He was back in town, pulled up at a stop light with a cop car rolling up alongside him. He became aware that he was grimacing and the glance the cop had given him was becoming a stare. He forced his expression into something blander and pulled away sedately when the light turned green. He didn't relax until he'd made the final two turns onto his own street and then almost at once he stiffened up again. The car parked out on the curb by his apartment building wasn't familiar, but the person in the driver's seat was. It was Barb Johnson and she had caught sight of him now, too.

He parked across from her. She flashed a wan smile. Her eyes were red and swollen. She'd obviously been crying and, just as obviously, was past that now.

"Mark?" she asked hesitantly.

He was out of the car, crossing to her. "I'm so sorry."

That did it; the dam of emotion she'd carefully pent up broke free again. Mark had a fleeting thought that it was better this way, better to get it all out. There was another thought that he barely let surface before he submerged it again—this was the first time he'd seen her since he'd gotten out of Quentin. Under any other circumstances it would have been awkward as hell, but now it stood overshadowed by tragedy.

"Come inside," he said. He already had her door open and was helping her out. It was crying, not sobbing, and she was pliable, following his directions as though they were a lifeline.

He got her up to the door and inside. Despite the grim distraction, he was briefly aware that the place was a dump, but Barbara had seen him in worse straits and the circumstances made it insignificant. He pulled a chair out from the small table and coaxed her down, seating himself kitty-corner from her. She took a long breath, wiped her eyes and looked away from him, embarrassedly.

"Sorry. I wasn't going to do that any more. I've been doing it all morning. I never cry. All that time I spent around guys growing up, I suppose."

She said it all so matter-of-factly that he wasn't sure what to say back. It seemed as though she were trying to find her way back to solid ground.

"I was at the track," he said. "One of the guys heard it on the radio."

"They called me around three this morning." Still that same calm tone, like the eye of a storm. "It took them a while to identify him. His wallet . . ." There was a slight crack in her voice and a pause. Then she hurried on quickly as though the ice underfoot was perilously thin. "He'd forgotten it. You know how he was, always forgetting things."

Mark nodded.

"His head in the clouds." She smiled fondly. "A dreamer."

"Barbara—"

"_Please_," she said sharply, then her voice went soft again, apologetic, "no platitudes. I've had enough of those this morning. And don't tell me what a great guy my dad was." She bit down, her jaw visibly clenched. "And I know you probably wonder where the hell I've been the last few months. I'll be honest." She paused again, frowning. "Your letters, you seemed kind of distant . . . _different_. I didn't know what to expect. Dad—" her voice caught again on the word. Then she shook herself lightly, frowned, and continued, "he said you hadn't changed a bit."

"I have," Mark said quietly.

She studied him silently for a moment. "Maybe," she finally said. "Maybe we all have."

"It happens. And it's okay about us not getting together since . . . since I've been back," he finished vaguely. "But this . . . this is just—"

"Not fair. I know. But you already know about life not being fair, huh?" She sighed and eased back in her seat, crossing her arms. "Maybe that's why I came over here. I called."

"I went out for a drive." He gestured vaguely.

"I figured." She let out a sigh and looked around absently at the dingy efficiency apartment. "I have to make arrangements." She frowned in the general direction of the linoleum. "That's what the police officer called it. I was wondering . . ." she frowned, "you've never done that. Your mom died when you were young."

"Pretty young," Mark admitted.

"Mine, too." Barb sighed. "It was always me and dad. Always." She reached up rubbing her temple with one hand. "I dunno. I'd been thinking of going away, going to law school." She glanced up, taking in the horrified look that Mark hadn't quite had time to suppress. "Okay, well, some of them are jerks. I know you think that, but I was hoping I could still help out my dad some, with him on the business end, now." The moment of present tense seemed to slip out unawares.

Mark nodded numbly. _People change_. He'd been stuck on the image of Barb in pigtails and a grease-stained pair of overalls with the cuffs rolled up, a kid underfoot when he hadn't been much older than a kid himself. He shook himself loose from that image and sank back into the reality of the moment.

"_Arrangements,_" he grimaced. "It can't be all that hard—" He broke off suddenly and flushed. "I mean it's _all _hard—but that part you just tell them what you want and they take care of everything."

She nodded. "It all seems so strange. I keep thinking I'll see him again, that he's just run down to the shop to fiddle with something. It doesn't seem real."

"Yeah," Mark said, and then, suddenly not in the mood for denial, he added, "that's how it is with the bad stuff. I used to wake up in the morning and think I was somewhere else." He didn't have to mention where he'd actually been when he'd had those thoughts.

Barbara nodded again in silent understanding.

"Ya know, it's weird," he tilted his head slightly; the thought had just come to him, "the same thing happened after I got out. Maybe the good stuff doesn't seem real either," he added philosophically.

Barb's lips went thin, her face set in a grimmer expression. "Not real? Yeah. It seemed that way."

He gave her a questioning look but she added nothing more. She just shook her head and stared out the window pensively for a moment, then turned to him. "Could you come with me? They want me to come down and identify him . . . officially, I mean. There's some papers to sign."

"Now?" He eyed her with some concern. Denial didn't seem like such a bad thing after all.

"They wanted me to go with them this morning. The cops. I said I couldn't, not yet. I think I was in some kind of shock. But it's got to be done. All of it, the arrangements." She looked like she'd made up her mind.

"Okay," he said, trying not to look unwilling. This was a friend's duty and Flip had been more than a friend.

00000

The trip to the medical examiner's office wasn't what brought the reality of it home for Mark. That moment came the next day, when he opened the paper and read the two-paragraph article buried in the obituary section of the LA Times.

The afternoon before had been done _pro forma_, with him ushering Barbara through a hundred inconsequential decisions at the funeral home. He'd been mistaken for her brother by the clerk at the M.E.'s, and he felt like that, slipping into a role he'd occupied for some time, back when he'd camped at Flip's place in Daytona.

When they were finally done he'd insisted on taking her out to eat, partly because he knew if he didn't, she'd probably eat nothing, and partly to avoid the moment when she'd have to return to her now-empty home. In the end, she didn't do that at all. They returned to his place instead, and she'd cried herself to sleep on his shoulder.

In the morning she was gone, with a note on the table thanking him. He had that, and the obituary, to remind him that it all was very real.

The funeral, by Barbara's wishes, was to be the next day. He'd already called his boss to get the time free, meeting with a grumbled complaint and a reluctant authorization. It was hard to explain to anyone that someone he hadn't seen for over two years was that important to him. He thought for a moment that his boss was going to say "you're fired" and, for that same long moment, he didn't care.

He knew that was stupid—the same sort of stupidity that had landed him in his current relationship with the State of California. He backed off, tendered his apologies, and volunteered to put in unpaid overtime until he'd caught-up on his backlog. He knew he'd be taken advantage of, but that was just one more price to pay for Flip's sake.

His boss bit. Why not? It was a great deal. After that Mark only wanted the conversation to be over. He hung up with weary relief after one last low-grade chewing out.

00000

The funeral was well attended. Mark was willing to stand back, out of the way, to let Barb's more recent friends step in and offer their support. To his surprise, Barb was having no part of it, sticking by his side for most of the ordeal. It was only for a moment at the graveside that he found himself alone, with only Vetromile for company, and Rabbit letting slip that he'd been the intended driver of Flip's creation.

That hit him hard, then again, a second later when he berated himself for even worrying about something like that with Flip dead. It settled one thing, though. Whatever Flip's intentions had been, he hadn't made them generally known. Not that it would have made much difference. He was in a grim mood when Flip's backer, Martin Cody, put in a carelessly late appearance. Still, Barb's sudden vehemence caught him off-balance.

He found himself back in the role of big brother, trying to shepherd her away. It was a relief, really, to not have anything at stake, to know his motivations with regard to Cody were absolutely without self-interest, though he'd like to think his instantaneous dislike for the man wouldn't have been influenced if he'd had a job offer at stake.

He pried Barbara away from the industrialist. The ceremony was over and there was nothing further to be done there at the cemetery. She was calm now. It was the calm of withdrawal but he saw no way to pull her back out without risking an avalanche of emotions that neither of them was ready to deal with. He drove her home and stayed just long enough to say goodbye.

He thought that might be it. They'd both get on with their lives—her with her unfillable hole and him trying to sort out the source of his grief. He went home and shed his funeral suit. He even thought about putting in a half-day at the shop. It might help take his mind off things, though it would just be awkward, now, explaining why he was there.

He hadn't gotten all that far in his ponderings when the phone rang.

"_Mark?_"

She'd been crying again, that much was evident. He felt a brief pang of regret for her icy withdrawal, but at least the crying seemed to be over for now.

"Are you okay?" He winced almost as soon as the words were out. Of course she wasn't okay. She'd just lost her father to a senseless accident.

But there was only a moment of silence from the other end of the line and then, "_I need to talk to you_."

00000

They met at the track in Saugus. He'd told her he had to pick up his gear there, which was true. He was also vaguely aware that he preferred neutral ground. This brother and sister thing could only offer so much insulation and he had a notion that if the two of them spent one more night on his sofa it wouldn't be sitting up. There'd always been a little background noise in their relationship—the occasional pop and sizzle—and this would be a lousy time to take advantage of it.

Now he was glad he'd done it this way. The crying seemed to be over for good, but she was prepossessing in her calm determination. He mentioned law school again, this time trying to sound approving, but that wasn't what she wanted to talk about.

She managed to sound completely rational, accusing a wealthy automotive industrialist of murder, and Mark found himself believing, as though she'd filled in the spaces on a general outline he'd already seen. Cody was a weasel, and Flip's death, while senseless, had been far too convenient.

But take back Flip's work? A prototype car parked in a high-security facility? He wavered for a moment. Dalem's parolee almost said no, but his sense of self-preservation faded back in a sudden flush of indignation. The Codys of the world got away with this stuff only because no one ever had the guts to stand in their path.

He realized he was already figuring out the angles even before he said yes.

00000

Speed was of the essence. It was obvious that, with Flip gone, Cody would move ahead quickly with his plans for the prototype. In a few days it might be shipped out for display, to raise further capital for the project. Luckily, Mark had what he needed—the kit he'd used for his more dubious repossession jobs. He'd left it with a friend back before his first conviction for auto theft—the one that had landed him in Strykerville.

He'd sworn off repos after that, a vow he'd held to faithfully but which hadn't kept him out of court. He wondered if that wasn't part of his fatalism now. If doing the right thing wasn't enough to ward off the wrath of the law, then what was the use of sticking to the straight and narrow?

Maybe there was something inevitable about this. He'd only run into that guy a month back—what were the odds that a box of stuff he'd left sitting in someone's garage would have still been there waiting for him to pick it up nearly five years later? And he'd gone to get it, maybe for old time's sake, maybe just because it was a small, relatively harmless act of defiance.

Now he pulled the box out of his closet, examining its contents critically. The clothes were slightly moldy and the duffle was dusty, but the ropes and tools within were pristine and the gloves—he pulled them on—still fit like gloves. He stretched and flexed his fingers. He'd had this same feeling only the day before yesterday as he'd climbed into that car up in Saugus, wondering if he still had what it took.

There'd been those few laps, the morning air full of high octane promise as he locked into the groove and felt alive. Having tasted that freedom again, he wasn't sure if he could ever go back to trudging through his parole. Two-and-a-half more years. He'd never make it; he was sure of that now. Why not do this one good thing for the man who had tried to give it all back to him? Screw Dalem and that prying, overbearing ass of a judge. He flexed his hand again.

Screw 'em all.

00000

He found it, right where Barbara had said it would be, and with his first look at the thing in the flesh—red and sleek and low—he wanted it. This felt more like theft than anything he'd ever done before, not because it was legally Cody's property and he was stealing it for Barbara, but because it wasn't _his_ and he coveted it.

He took it and ran. It was fox and hounds, and he felt a guilty pleasure in the tool with which he out-paced his pursuers. Only the hounds were human and one of them rolled his car. Suddenly the game had gone sour. He pulled up sharply, aware of a clenching grip around his heart.

Not dead. Not yet at least, thank God. Still just enough time to pull him out as the flames licked closer.

00000

He'd gotten away, but only just, and he'd been shaken to the core. He stuck to the back streets, the shadows. His breathing only slowed when he got out into the valley, away from the city lights and the feeling of imminent pursuit. He called her from a pay phone. She came, a trailer and hitch behind an old truck of her dad's.

Neither one of them was in a mood for rejoicing over their victory. Some of his worry must have rubbed off on her.

"Keep it out of sight," he said, after he'd coaxed it up on the rig and strapped it into place. "Don't tell me where you're taking it."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to know. It's better that way."

"What happened?"

He said nothing as he hastily unfolded the tarp and slung it over the car. She tugged at his sleeve anxiously. "Tell me," she said insistently.

"There was a lot of security, more than I expected."

"But you got away."

"Probably." He shrugged. "Probably nothing."

She frowned as she turned to tie down her side of the tarp. He worked on his. That finished, he dropped the duffle in the front seat of the truck.

"Get rid of this stuff as soon as you can. I don't ever want to see it again."

She nodded, then hesitated and said, "Come with me."

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

"I'm a felon."

She was staring at him, uncomprehending.

"If they haven't figured this out already, they'll sure as hell add it all up by Friday if I don't show for my parole meeting."

"I don't care."

"You ought to. What would your dad say if I landed you in prison, too? _Go._" He glanced down at his watch, already walking away from her. "I've got a bus to catch." He didn't turn around to see if she was following instructions, but was relieved to finally hear the truck door slam and the engine start up.

00000

It had been a long night and it was daylight before he stepped off the last bus, only a block from his apartment. Dressed in basic black, he felt painfully conspicuous despite the early hour and the empty streets. Still, almost home free.

He'd spent the last two hours of the night wondering what had possessed him for the preceding ten and offering up silent promises that he'd never, _ever _do it again if only this one time it turned out okay. He hadn't been able to sleep, not even on the longest of the three bus rides. Every time he closed his eyes it was to rewitness the explosion that had nearly cost the life of one of his pursuers.

_What would you have done then?_ His hands would have been as bloody as Cody's._ You're just damn lucky. _

He darted a glance over his shoulder. No one following, thank God. He just had to go inside, shed his incriminating clothes, don his work overalls, and put all of this behind him. And it might be best if he didn't see Barbara for a while.

Then a guy in a suit stepped around the corner of his building, leveling a gun at him and announcing his arrest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Snapshots: Rolling Thunder**

**Part 2**

Most of his stuff was packed up. There were only loose ends to be dealt with. The lunch invitation from Jenkins had been a welcome distraction. Hardcastle wouldn't have said that about many of his judicial colleagues, he didn't see eye-to-eye with some of them, but Hank was a down-to-earth guy.

"Barney's Beanery, huh?" Jenkins said dubiously, hands in his pockets as they stood just outside the door. "I'd kind of hoped you'd let me take you someplace classier, your retirement and all. It's supposed to be an occasion."

"It's not until the day after tomorrow." Hardcastle opened the door and ushered the other man in. "Anyway, I like hotdogs."

"Louise'll skin me if she finds out I've had one." Jenkin's made a doleful face. "The cholesterol, ya know."

"Can't live forever." Hardcastle shrugged as they were shown to a table.

They settled in, temporarily occupied with their menus. Jenkins squinted down at his for a moment and then pulled out his glasses.

"I envy you, Milt," he said, glancing up. "Walking away from it all while you're still alive and kicking. No more planning committee meetings. Fishing in the middle of the week."

"Fishing?" Hardcastle's smile was slightly wolfish. "Yeah, you could say that." He leaned forward slightly. "I haven't told anybody about this yet, but I've got some post-retirement plans."

He explained in loose and general terms, but he thought it was all fairly cogent—especially the part about having a hired hand.

He hadn't noticed the expression on Jenkins' face at first, as it slid slowly into disbelief.

"I thought you'd given up on all that do-it yourself rehab stuff. I mean, that last one, what was his name—?"

"Beale," Hardcastle said, tight-lipped.

"Yeah, _him_."

"Miscalculation. Won't make that mistake again."

Jenkins cocked his head. "You mean you've already got another one lined up?"

Hardcastle gave that a considered nod. "Six months out, this time. Keeping his nose clean and everything."

"So, what makes you sure this is the—?"

"This one spits in my eye every time I get near him." Hardcastle grinned.

Jenkins wasn't looking convinced.

"See, Beale, he was a pretty smooth operator: 'Yes Judge, no Judge.' You never know where you're at with somebody like that." Hardcastle's grin was surprisingly durable. "But this kid's so full of piss and vinegar that he can't even pretend to stand me."

"_That's_ the guy you're going to get to be your hired hand?"

"Yup, just gotta convince him it's in his best interest."

"I don't know. Sounds pretty iffy."

"Ya know, Hank, I'm not looking for someone to be my buddy. This'll be strictly business. _My_ business. He's gonna fetch and carry, do some of the heavy lifting, maybe pick up a little discipline along the way—learn not to take the short cuts." Hardcastle frowned pensively at his menu. "He could use some of that." He looked up suddenly, and caught the other man's equally pensive expression.

Jenkins cleared his throat slightly and then plunged in. "I heard the Commission was still giving you a hard time about Beale."

Hardcastle shrugged. "What the hell else can they do to me? I'm retiring."

On that definitive note, Jenkins let the issue drop. Hardcastle didn't feel like he'd convinced his friend of anything, but at least his idea's reception hadn't been as frosty as some he'd gotten lately. Even Dalem had sounded baffled by his choice.

"_That one's a loser._" Those had been the man's exact words, when he'd told him he wanted to keep tabs on McCormick. And Dalem had been hell-fired eager on Friday to share the news that his parolee had backslid.

Hardcastle had felt more than a twinge of disappointment at that announcement. And even though it might've provided just the right lever to get McCormick on board with his plan, somehow he hadn't been all that sorry to find out that Dalem had been mistaken. Still, considering the reception he'd gotten from McCormick Friday afternoon, Hardcastle thought he might have been a tad premature announcing his choice to Jenkins. He drew himself up silently.

_No, this is the one. Just got to pound_ _a little sense into that thick skull of his._ He thought he meant that metaphorically. Maybe.

The rest of the meal was spent on relatively neutral ground and finished up with mutual promises to get out to their favorite shared trout stream sometime soon, with Hardcastle now almost a man of leisure. He smiled and nodded at this, keeping the precise nature of the rest of his plans to himself.

Eventually they caught a cab back to the courthouse—Hank to his afternoon session and Milt to sort out the last details of his remaining work load. He'd almost made it back to his chambers when Ruthie, one of the secretaries, tagged him.

"Judge Hardcastle, I'm glad I found you. Mr. Dalem from the parole office called. He was looking for you, said it was important."

Hardcastle frowned. "He say what it was about?"

There was a quick shake of the woman's head as she handed over the note with the incoming message—just "Re: McCormick. Call me ASAP."

He wasn't sure why the fodder he'd taken on at Barney's had abruptly turned to lead in his stomach. Sudden news from the parole office was never good but he'd taken last Friday's in stride. He let himself into his chambers, finding the phone among the boxes which were packed and ready to go. He glanced down at the note again and dialed the number himself.

Dalem's secretary picked up. Hardcastle had a distinct recollection of her as an attractive blond with a sparkling personality to match. There was no lilt in her voice today. She was grimly terse as she routed his call back to her boss.

"_Milt_? _Hated to bother you and all, but I thought you'd want to know. It's McCormick again._"

"What now? Dammit, he went out of there half-cocked Friday. Don't tell me he did something stupid."

"_I think this goes way beyond stupid. He pulled another car job._"

There was a pause from Dalem's end. Hardcastle thought the man's tone was more self-satisfied than disappointed, and the silence was an unspoken "I told you so". He wasn't buying it, at least not yet.

"Why the hell would he do a thing like that?" he growled, more to himself than to the man who was officially McCormick's keeper.

"_You're surprised?_" Dalem said, and this time there was a definite chortle to it. "_I figured it was only a matter of time with that one._"

"Details," Hardcastle said brusquely. "What happened?"

"_There was a break-in overnight at an automotive research facility. Stupid move, the place had heavy-duty security. He took a prototype car—_"

"Allegedly took."

Dalem grunted. "_Not much 'allegedly' to this one. He was caught in the act._"

"Arrested at the scene?" Hardcastle asked grimly. This was way more lever than he'd wanted.

"_Ah . . . not exactly. They picked him up at his place this morning._"

Hardcastle felt one eyebrow going up in puzzlement. "So what do they have on him? You sounded pretty certain."

Another pause, as though this part wasn't giving Dalem quite as much pleasure, and then he said, bluffly, "_One of the cops at the scene got a pretty good look at him_."

"Just a look, not an arrest?" Hardcastle asked, trying to suppress his impatience. "How close could he have been?"

"_Real close_ . _. . they said your boy yanked him out of a crashed cruiser._"

"Wait a sec—"

"_It was flight to evade arrest, Milt. Add that onto the rest. And the officer in question might have been seriously injured._"

"You mean he crashed his car, and McCormick stopped and made sure he was okay?"

"_Well . . . yeah_."

"And the officer is sure about the ID—I mean, it was night time, dark out there."

"_There was plenty of light,_" Dalem said. "_The damn cruiser was on fire._"

There was a pause, and then Hardcastle heard a long low whistle escape from his own lips and then, "It could have been murder one."

"_I think that's how the DA's looking at it. They're not even bothering with the parole violation end of it right now. It's peanuts compared to the bill of indictment. _"

"But no arraignment set so far? They just picked him up today, you said?"

_"This morning, yeah, early._"

There was puzzlement in Dalem's tone, and then dead silence when Hardcastle replied, more in a muttered aside to himself, "Then it might not be too late."

He extracted himself from the conversation with as much haste as was decent. He was suddenly glad he hadn't gone into the specifics of his original plan when he'd talked to Dalem the Friday before.

This was a lever, all right, the kind Archimedes would have used to move the earth, but he wasn't so sure anymore that he wanted to wield it. The part about going back to pull the cop out of the burning car fit the profile he'd already mentally composed, but no rescue would have been needed if the damn kid hadn't gone and done something stupid again.

_He_ _must've_ _had some kind of reason_.

Hardcastle knew he wasn't going to get that from the DA. And he couldn't go near anyone else involved in the case, not yet. Ideally, he'd have to get them to come to him.

He picked up the phone again, this time dialing Willa Ann at the scheduling desk. She picked up promptly, sounding surprised to be getting a call from his extension.

"_If it's that Diebolt case, I've already reassigned it._"

"Nah, kiddo, no problem there. Whoever you dumped that on is welcome to it. I hoped you picked one of the young guys so you don't wind up having to pass it on again."

This got him a small laugh, which is what he was angling for. Time to pop the question.

"You've got an arraignment to schedule, a guy named McCormick, Mark." He heard some papers being shuffled. "Might not be there just yet."

"_No, no here it is_." She sounded mystified. "_How'd you know about that one?_"

"A little bird and all that," Hardcastle said blithely. "Whaddaya say we put that one in my book for tomorrow morning?"

"_But it's way down at the bottom here. I've got a stack ahead of it. Besides, I thought we'd agreed not to put anything new on your docket. Only two more days,_" she reminded him cheerfully, as though he might have forgotten.

He gritted his teeth but kept his patter light, with just a hint of cajolery. "I know the guy, sent him up a few years back. Besides, I hear the case is pretty air-tight. Wouldn't surprise me if he pleads guilty. I might be able to tidy one up for you, and you know I hate just sitting around twiddling my thumbs."

This last bit didn't need any selling. It was the gold-plated truth. That and the possibility of getting one more case out of her ever-increasing pile was enough to seal the deal.

"_California v. McCormick_. _3 pm. It's yours_." Then, after a pause, "_There aren't going to be any objections from defense council on this—you having sentenced him previously_."

"Probably," he sighed, "_eventually_ . . . but, hey," he brightened, "it's just an arraignment. He pleas, and that's that. Trust me, kiddo, even Clarence Darrow wouldn't expect to get bond for this guy. He's a two-time loser still on parole."

That all this went against his earlier promise of a possible quick resolution was lost in the thank you's and further wishes for a happy retirement. He hung the phone up still not certain of what he'd do with his prize. That depended on a lot of things he didn't know yet.

_Motive_. Of the three aspects of this crime, this was the one that still stood unelucidated. He would have sworn Friday afternoon that mad as McCormick had been he had also been shrouded in the mantle of honest self-justification. Of course Beale had sounded like a reformed man, too.

_Good thing you're getting out of this now. You've lost your touch._

No, he didn't believe that. Beale had just been way smarter than your average con—that and an agile liar. McCormick seemed to have neither of those traits, at least not that he'd noticed during the kid's other trial. Hardcastle shook his head and put the phone back on the desk. Further investigations into the background of the case would have to wait until he had a reason to be interested. If anyone on the Judicial Commission got wind of this, he thought the case would be reassigned so fast that Willa Ann would get a nasty paper cut.

00000

It might not have gone down as a textbook arraignment. Certainly no one from the Judicial Commission would have seen it that way. The accused hadn't even gotten around to making a plea. Nor had he accepted Hardcastle's offer, made in chambers, further evidence that the kid was no Beale—either in smarts or self-control. Didn't he realize he was looking at ten years? Maybe more, if the DA had their way with a request for serving the sentences serially and a couple of parole violations tacked on for good measure.

But McCormcik had offered a motive. It was one Hardcastle had had an inkling of the night before, when he'd reviewed the indictment and encountered Cody Industries. There'd been a recent mention of the company and its CEO in the Sunday Times in relation to the death of a car designer. Of course it might have meant anything—a piece of industrial espionage taking advantage of an already chaotic situation—but the kid's version was a lot more satisfying way to arrange the pieces of the puzzle.

Now he had Martin Cody's file in front of him, garnered from the county's records and supplemented by what other jurisdictions hadn't been able to act on. The file had been more than interesting. He'd spend most of the late afternoon perusing it, in between bursts of packing books and papers and contemplating some changes to his short range retirement plans. What were the odds that McCormick would invent an accusation against the man that already fit his previous M.O.?

_Alleged M.O._, Hardcastle corrected himself automatically. He got up, gathered the file and the extra papers under his arm, and cast a last look around at his now nearly-empty chambers. He owed one more day of service to the LA County Superior Court but, somehow, he didn't think he'd be back. He'd written up the court order—a carefully-worded judicial stay for the case of _California v. McCormick_. Then he'd waited until he could be certain that all of the day people had left. This would be a little tricky, and best presented as a _fait accompli_.

He clicked off the lights and departed.

00000

He couldn't believe _this _lever wasn't big enough. There was McCormick, behind bars looking depressed as hell, being offered a way out of this mess—even a way to get some justice for his dead friend—and _still_ the guy seemed reluctant. Hardcastle was running low on patience.

"This is what you'd call a limited time offer, sport." He didn't specify exactly who was running short of time to make this thing work.

The younger man was turned away, sprawled on his bunk. For a long moment there was no response. Then, almost suddenly and without turning to face him, McCormick said simply, "Okay, I'll do it."

That was it, no argument, no request for further details, either about how they'd pursue Cody, or anything else after. Hardcastle controlled his surprise. He'd expected more argument. He'd actually been looking forward to it. This was just a little too precipitous after all that stonewalling.

"You're gonna talk to your lawyer first."

"Why? I've already decided."

"Not without your attorney to give the whole think a look-see first."

"Miller? He's a chipmunk for God's sake. Anyway, you're right, if we're going to go after Cody, we need to get started." He was sitting up now. His face furrowed suddenly as if he'd just realized where he still was. "I don't want to wait until tomorrow."

"You won't have to. I called him before I came down here. He's on his way in."

The reaction he got was worth having scouted out Miller's home number from the on-call member of the public defender's office. There was a pause as McCormick mastered his obvious startlement.

"Must be nice to be a judge," he said dryly.

"It is sometimes," Hardcastle replied with a grin. He glanced down at his wrist watch. "Stick around. I'll get the guard."

He spared one quick look at McCormick's bemusement. Things were obviously moving too fast for the kid. He strode off without waiting for a reply and returned a few moments later with an equally baffled guard. It was only a matter of minutes before they found Miller up in the interview room they'd been assigned.

He handed McCormick and the papers over. "You two discuss it. I'll be out here." He gestured to the vacant hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Snapshots: Rolling Thunder**

**Part 3**

Mark was still staring in that direction after the door had closed and there was nothing more to be seen. He didn't move until he was startled slightly, and that was by the sound of Miller clearing his throat.

"What happened this afternoon after you went back in chambers with the judge?"

Mark turned slowly toward the P.D., now sitting across the table from him. He shrugged. "The guy offered me a deal."

Miller frowned. "What kind of deal?"

Mark was frowning now, too. "A crazy deal. He said he wants to go after a bunch of guys who got off on technicalities. He wants me to help him." He shook his head. "Is that legal? It doesn't _sound_ legal."

"Does it matter?" Miller said. He leaned forward slightly. "You're looking at a long stretch inside. You said so yourself. If he's offering you _any _kind of deal you oughta take it." He eased back a little with a questioning look. "How come it took him so long to call me?"

"'Cause I told him no this afternoon. He came back tonight—he said he'll help me nail that guy Cody."

"The one you stole the car from?"

"It wasn't his. Weren't you listening to me at _all_ this morning?"

Miller stared at him. After a moment he pinched the bridge of his nose and said, simply, "Take the deal."

Then he got to his feet and headed for the door, leaving Mark sitting at the table. It was only a second or two after Miller's departure when the door opened again. This time it was Hardcastle leaning on the jamb.

"So it's settled?"

"I said it was," Mark said testily. "Nobody listens to me." He sighed. "Okay, what now? Do I have to sign something?"

"Would it make a difference if you did?"

Mark opened his mouth, then shut it again. He was suddenly tired of sparring with this man. He's gotten practically no sleep the night before, and none at all the night before that. He really couldn't remember the last night he'd done more than stare at the ceiling in either excited anticipation or dread despair.

"Just tell me what happens next."

00000

Despite his exhaustion, stepping out into the warm Los Angeles night lifted his spirits. For a moment he'd even lost track of the signal fact that had guided him to this place: Flip's death. It came back to him quickly enough, though he thought it was like the waves of a receding tide. Eventually they might lap against the shore of memory rather than pound.

And Hardcase—he studied the man more closely—he was dressed like a vagrant. The vehicle he'd led them to was a beat-up truck, too reputable to be called vintage. There were stray papers and more Lone Ranger comic books strewn on the front seat. The judge had already climbed into the driver's side.

Mark hesitated. They were well away from the jail complex, at the far end of an empty parking lot. There was a poorly-lit park across the street, just a half block down. He gazed off in that direction. The darkness almost beckoned him.

He heard the echo of Hardcastle's off-hand remark from a few minutes back—_Would it matter if you did?_ He'd signed nothing but he _had_ given his word . . . twice, as he recalled. It suddenly mattered very much, though he wasn't sure exactly why. Maybe it wasn't so much that he had given it, but that Hardcase had accepted it.

He turned back to the truck and climbed in, trying not to notice the long hard stare the judge was giving him.

00000

He'd never quite gotten that decent night's sleep. The first one at the estate had been cut short by his attempted kidnapping. The second one, in Las Vegas, was spent plotting and arguing with Hardcastle. Now—the third day into "indefinitely"—he was woken by a tap on the door of his new digs.

He pulled on a t-shirt and resisted the urge to shout something rude to his early-rising slave driver. At least the guy was knocking, which he somehow didn't think came naturally to Hardcastle.

He opened the door and saw Barbara on the stoop.

"Hi," she said, and then, taking in his disheveled appearance, added, "sorry, I know it's early. The judge said you were awake."

"Wishful thinking," Mark muttered. Then he smiled a little more kindly. "But you're up, huh?"

"Couldn't sleep," she confessed. "I brought this." She handed over the nondescript black binder. "One of Cody's engineers brought it over last night. It's dad's."

Mark stepped back inside the gate house and dropped into the nearest chair. He opened the binder carefully, his eyes lighting on a page near the front. It was filled with Flip's neat, technical hand—so painfully familiar. The words blurred and he swiped at his eyes.

"It's the notes, for the Coyote," she said quietly. "His copy. You know he'd been dreaming about that car for years. Planning for it"

Mark nodded silently then looked up. "You sure you want me to have it, to have _these_?" He lifted the notebook slightly.

She nodded. "It's what dad would have wanted. He wanted you to drive it."

He set it back down in his lap, still carefully, and leafed through a few more pages. Then he glanced up again and saw Barb looking around curiously. She gradually became aware of his considering look.

She smiled, almost nervously. "It's not such a bad place, is it?"

"This?" He gestured around himself lightly. "Are you kidding? It's beautiful." He dropped his voice to a confidential murmur. "The guy who owns it is nuts, though."

To his surprise, a sudden look of real concern shadowed her face.

"It's okay," he added suddenly. "I've bunked with crazy people before. At least this time I have my own room, right?"

She nodded, still nervous. "I rode home with him yesterday. He didn't seem too crazy."

Mark nodded, thinking hard about how long a drive it was from Las Vegas to Los Angeles and wondering how much of it the judge had spent interrogating Flip's daughter.

"Don't worry," she smiled again, as though she were reading his mind, "I only told him the good stuff." Then, as if to contradict that, her smile was gone and the look of concern was back. "How long will you have to stay here?"

Mark forced his own worried expression back into the box.

"'Indefinitely'," he said, in what was intended to be a humorous version of Hardcastle's gruff bark. Then he was back in his own voice, with an edge of doubt to it. "Any idea how long that might be?"

Barb shook her head. "I can find out for you. I'll be in law school starting January."

"That's great," he said, his own problems suddenly forgotten. "You're going to make a terrific lawyer. Flip'll—" He drew up short at that, flustered for a moment, and then preceded on, more soberly. "Your dad would've been so proud."

"I'd like to think he's up there somewhere," she gestured vaguely, "and he knows what's going on—"

"Yeah," Mark said fondly, "my mom, too—only not some of the time," he added quietly.

"Right," Barb smiled. "Not along on dates." She gazed up at the ceiling. "Sorry, Dad."

They sat for a moment, lost in thought. Mark felt the tide receding just a little more and hoped it was the same for Barbara. He heard her sigh.

"It'll get better," he said. "It takes a while but it does."

"Oh, I know that. I was pretty young when my mom died, but I remember. That wasn't what I was worried about." She paused and then started up again with more intensity. "It's you, being _here_. I hope it works out. I mean," she furrowed her brow, "this is my fault. I'm the one who put you up to getting dad's car back and all that. I feel responsible"

Mark smiled. It was less forced than he'd thought it would be. "I'm okay." And almost as soon as he'd said it he realized he believed it.


End file.
